Page 84 of Too Sinful to Deny
However, she had no wish to step out into the corridor, only to find herself shackled next to cousin Emeline in the cellar. Poor cousin Emeline. Susan dropped her face into her hands and tried not to imagine what she’d suffered as a result of Susan’s unsuccessful attempt to free them both from the monster of the Manor.
Heartsick, she dallied in the relative safety of her bedchamber. Breakfast came and went. Janey came and went as well. Bearing no tidings—or money—from home.
Again.
Leaving Susan with the disheartening realization that no one was coming to her rescue.Ifher family had received her pleas in the first place. Whether her letters ever got posted remained a matter of speculation. It would be just like her guardian to have his servants toss her missives directly into the closest fire.
She eyed the locked door. Could the giant knock it from its hinges by brute force? Possibly. She cleaned her spectacles and peered closer at said hinges. Make thatprobably. The latch was old. He was big. And she was an unarmed Town miss with no one to turn to.
Her cheeks heated at this lie.
But she didn’t know what to think about Mr. Bothwick. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot perhaps, what with him trying to shoot his pistols at the master of the house (which turned out to be an excellent character assessment on Mr. Bothwick’s part) and her erasing the footpath with her derrière (which turned out to be yet another directional misstep on her part). Then there was last night.
She hadn’t meant to kiss him. Well, yes, she’d hoped he’d steal a kiss. Or two. But she certainly hadn’t intended for things to escalate any further. His mouth and his fingers made an excellent case for giving up on “purity.” Unfortunately, she didn’t have that luxury.
Mr. Bothwick, however, had been nothing short of offended when she’d deemed him not the sort of man one married, no matter how much one’s heart might leap at the idea of being his for more than one night. A smuggler was not husband material. A smuggler was the sort of shameless rakehell who lifted women’s skirts in strange bedchambers. (She’d consider her own complicity in the matter at another time.)
She wished she could have the best of both worlds but recognized the impossibility. One of them had to keep a clear head. She put her eye to the keyhole of her bedchamber door to ensure the corridor was empty before stepping out.
The irony of the situation, Susan decided as she carefully crept through the Manor and out the front door, was that the man she’d thought would be her ally was not. She’d been certain Mr. Forrester would be shocked and horrified and wish to rescue both women immediately. Yet he’d patted her on the head and immediately returned Lady Emeline to her prison.
Whereas the man she’d labeled a villain from the first, who carried pistols and lost his brother’s corpse and never let a second pass without an attempt at divesting her from her (thus far continuing) virginity—thatman had stared the giant down, demanded Lady Emeline’s prompt release, been so furious at the giant’s refusal Susan had been certain only one of them would leave the cellar alive.
All of which boiled down to one surprising truth: There was the law, and then there was the law unto oneself. And sometimes the latter was more effective.
She pondered this conclusion as she headed down the sandy path toward town. True, they hadn’t managed to rescue Lady Emeline last night. But Mr. Bothwick had been so outraged on cousin Emeline’s behalf, Susan was certain his aid could be enlisted in the future. Perhaps he could rescue them both.
That still didn’t make him husband material, of course. In fact, his very usefulness lay in the fact that he was theoppositeof eligible. She’d seen what an honorable, proper, law-abiding gentleman would accomplish: absolutely nothing. Mr. Bothwick, on the other glove, was the sort who made things happen.
Before she could ruminate more on the topic, his dead brother chose that moment to materialize at her side.
“I don’t know what happened to the box,” she announced preemptively. If she was a bit defensive about the topic, it was because she’d barely left her bedchamber all weekend. She presumed the ghost’s absence indicated he’d been watching over his brother.
“I found it,” Dead Mr. Bothwick said, keeping an arm’s length between them as he accompanied her by floating backward down the trail. “It’s in Ollie’s dining room.”
She pushed up her spectacles. After last night, no way was she stepping foot in the giant’s domain. “And?”
“And now,” he replied, “you steal it.”
Susan stumbled on the rocky path. “Are you bamming me? You haveno ideahow displeased with me that monster is at the moment. If he catches me trying to steal that jewelry box, he’ll cut off my arms.”
“Unlikely.”
“Or my tongue.”
Dead Mr. Bothwick winced. “Perhaps.”
She stopped walking. Even the wind seemed to cease for a moment. “What do you mean, ‘perhaps’?”
He flickered. “Nothing. I meant nothing. Go steal the box.”
“I think you did mean something. I think you meant, ‘Perhaps he will, Miss Stanton. Oh well.’ Which means you have reason to believe it could happen.”
“Can we please talk about the box?”
“No.” Susan narrowed her eyes at the shimmering ghost. Not for the first time, she felt Dead Mr. Bothwick was not telling the whole truth. Nor was he overly concerned about her mortality. In short, she didn’t trust him. The odd thing was, he didn’t seem to trust her either. And the black cloud for them both? They were stuck with each other.
“Please pay attention.” His ghostly form rippled. “It is of utmost urgency that you hide that box somewhere neither Ollie nor his servants will ever find it.”
